


The Night Queen

by LaFayVerte



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Based on a joke, Ebon is still an awesome word, F/M, but also OTP, crackship, that turned into this big ass fic because I have no impulse control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 22:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18537139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaFayVerte/pseuds/LaFayVerte
Summary: Arya Stark becomes the Night Queen.





	The Night Queen

Arya Stark dies.

The last thing she remembers is the dingy walls of the House of Black and White. She recalls the chanting of the faceless men around her, and the blood of the kindly man spraying over her paralyzed body. The Stranger’s magic rips her apart, and bursts of scarlet and grey swirl around her in a flurry of pain. It’s only then, in the middle of her agony, that she realizes that maybe she isn’t so afraid of death.

_Valar Morghulis._

Arya Stark wakes up.

A cold touch whips away the hurt and puts her back together. She opens her eyes to see the strangest sight she’s ever witnessed: A man stands before her (if he could even be called that), an icy blue patch over a field of white. Something about the man is inhumane and elegant, like a statue that came to life.

It _should_ scare her, the way his skin seems to wrinkle in hard patterns on his face, his arms, his entire body. Or how his veins run along his head like cracks in a bottomless frozen lake. If nothing else then the horns of ice coming out of his head should send her running for the hills.

He looks like death incarnate, and yet she does not fear him. _No._ not when his eyes, twinkling like two tiny stars, look at her with such kindness that it arrests her in place, mesmerized by his gaze.

Death is good. Death is tranquil.

‘My queen’ though he whispers the words in reverence, the sound that escapes him is raspy and guttural and all encompassing, fitting for the way he looks. _So_ tenderly this stranger takes her left hand in his right one and cups her face with the other, leaning his forehead against hers ‘finally, I have you back my bride.’

The cold courses through her, and somehow it feels both peaceful and exhilarating.

* * *

Arya meets uncle Benjen again, his eyes aren’t blue and glowing, and apart from his pale skin he more or less looks the same but still something isn’t quite right.

 _He looks dead_ . Is all she can think, and for the tenth time she wonders how much _she_ has changed.

‘Uncle Benjen!’ She hugs him as tight as she can, ignoring how deformed and croaky her own voice has become.

 _‘You’re_ the Night Queen?’ His eyes widen in shock as he takes in her mysterious appearance, before his expression darkens ‘he must have been planning this for a long time. Probably knew that the other side would hesitate to strike you down’

Arya bites her lip before thinking about probing further or defending her new husband, after all it is understandable why her uncle would hate him. Yes, it’s true that the Night King brings winter where he treads and it’s true that death follows his shadow. But somehow, she is yet to see the monster from Old Nan’s stories.

Ice preserves, and death is a mercy. _Bringing them is not evil_.

But then why is there a small, girlish voice in the back of her head that doesn’t quite believe that?

‘Is he truly as bad as you say? Worry starts to gnaw at her, even when her uncle tries gives her a reassuring smile ‘you and I are just fine, aren’t we uncle?’

‘You and I are Starks of Winterfell, the blood of the first men’ his eyes bore into hers, so like her father’s that a shiver runs down her spine. Gallows humor: She had though that she couldn’t feel the cold anymore ‘The blood of the White Walkers and your Night’s King.’

‘Is he a Stark as well?’ Arya knows that his name is forbidden and forgotten, and revulsion at the thought of marrying her ancestor makes her stomach twist in knots.

‘His true name is Jon Snow’ Uncle Ben’s eyes soften, no doubt at her own expression ‘many northern houses have the blood of the first men, it could have been one of them.’

 _He’s lying_. The lines in his face tell her as much, and even if they didn’t. There was not a single house in the North, nay, in Westeros that had a bloodline as ancient and powerful as they did. Save perhaps for the Targaryens.

If she has any tears left within her, then Arya would cry. _Mother and father would be so ashamed, as if I needed to give them another reason._ In an instant, Uncle Benjen’s arms are around her again, he strokes her back and whispers that what’s done is done.

It is not done.

Not until her pack is back together, one way or another. _Valar Morghulis._

* * *

Her husband gifts her with a sword, a skinny little thing with an achingly familiar pommel.

‘How did you know what it looked like?’ Though he attempts to stand languidly, Arya notices the tension in his shoulders and the taught corners of his lips. She examines the blade and its faint glow, as if someone had chipped a piece of the moon and forged it into her Needle ‘did your magic let you see my memories when you brought me back?’

The Night King shrugs, but she can see his shoulders slump and his lips quirk into a tiny smile.

Arya comes to find out that he is a man of few words, whether that’s due to his _condition_ or if it’s just how he is she cannot guess. Even so, no one in their right mind could make the mistake of thinking him empty-headed. Most definitely not with the way his presence rolls off of him into the world like a dark snowstorm, rampant and all encompassing even in the empty wasteland. It makes her proud, how she can always draw a tiny smile from this somber, intimidating king.

It reminds her of father in a twisted way.

It’s nice.

‘Dance with me’? She holds her icy Needle in her waxy fingers, twirling it around and testing the weight.

‘I would be delighted.’ He smiles back and brandishes his blade, moving with lean strength and otherworldly elegance. The Night King meets her blade for blade, so skillful that Arya takes it as a testament to her skill when she holds out against him for a good half an hour before his blade is at her throat.

‘Dead.’ he intones, trying to pretend that he isn’t too pleased of his terrible jape.

‘I’m not used to duels, you know’  she dusts off the snow and gets up once more ‘had we been playing in _my_ field, you’d already be...well more dead than this’ she takes her stance, challenging him for another round ‘give me a week and I’ll have you knocked on your feet every time’

They dance again, and again, and again. Neither of them tires and neither of them surrenders. Not even when her husband cheats and uses his wights against her and not when she uses what meager magic that she’s begun to learn.

It only ends when he decides to reach for her and kiss her and Arya’s world, so dynamic a second ago, seems to stop.

His lips were both smooth and hard, like kissing an ice sculpture. Had she been another being, warmer and softer, Arya would have probably frozen to death.

But that is not who she is, she’s the queen of the White Walkers and winter runs in her veins.

The girl she was is dead and gone. _Valar Morghulis._

The Night Queen kisses back her king, wrapping her arms around his neck and losing herself in the sensation. And in her carelessness she tries to grasp for hair that isn’t there and pricks her hand on his sharp crown.

‘Careful, love’ he steps away to examine her hand, cradling it with so much care. He tuts at it and touches her wounds, mindful of her injuries, letting his magic flow into her and seal it from the inside.

It’s strange how much affection this one seems to show her, and it’s even more strange how genuine they seem to her trained eye. The way he holds her and talks to her is so gentle that she might as well be made of glass, but then he gives her opinion so much weight even in front of his Walkers, and trains her so thoroughly with the sword that it cannot be possible that he sees her as anything pertaining to the word _weak._

 _‘_ Yes?’ His blue eyes flit to her own, sensing her wandering mind.

‘I cannot understand you’ he raises a quizzical brow at her words ‘Why are you doting on me like a newborn pup when you’ve only met me a few moons ago?’

‘I am not _doting_!’ her words startle him, as if she’s uncovered some great secret ‘I’ll have you know that I hold you to a higher standard than any other Walker.’

Now _that_ was new. While it’s technically true that he’s marching into battle with her at his side, and that he would often have her weigh in on his decisions, Arya never thought that he actually took her presence seriously, mostly because she was still new to his world but also because she had no real loyalty ties to him.

‘You do?’

‘I would never choose a queen made of anything less than ice and the sharpest steel’ the conviction and finality in his tone makes something stir within her, something that had no business stirring in a dead woman really. Especially after she had made the decision to ignore it years ago.

It seems like she’s an idiot who falls for honeyed words after all.

 _Seven hells._ Well, she’s pretty sure she’s in one of them anyway.

* * *

The next time he kisses her, The Night King asks her to call him by his name.

Arya hesitates, the name stubbornly refusing to roll off her tongue. _I am that girl no longer._ Steeling herself, she meets the king’s patient gaze and takes heart in it ‘Jon’ the queen half whispers, half mumbles as she pushes down the face that the name summons beneath her eyelids.

‘Yes, little heart’ his lips breaks into a face splitting smile, one that’s so familiar that she feels the hairs on her arms standing up ‘say it again!’

‘Jon…’ The way he grins completely changes his face, it makes him seem somehow younger, boyish even. Had he had a full head of hair and smoother skin, he would almost look like something impossible, unthinkable even.

‘Arya...’ The Night King reaches out and quickly ruffles her hair, his tone laced with unusual cheer.

‘Jon?’ Her heart catches in her throat momentarily as her vision seems to brighten, taking in every feature, every gesture, every glint in his eyes. It was the same, how could she not have noticed that they were the same?

‘Yes Arya?’ This time he chuckles, the sound of it so familiar even with his grating voice. Immediately, the King's arms are open.

‘Jon!’ Immediately , the queen is jumping into them and clinging to him for dear life because in a way she is. Around them the world becomes clearer and sharper, as if she’s warging into Nymeria again. Arya can even smell the freshness of snow and the pungency of the earth beneath it.

It’s the most intense she’s ever felt ever since she died, so much so that she half expects to feel her heart beating against her ribcage. _But it never will._

Because she is dead and so is he _. Valar Morghulis._

Curiosity bubbles within her, but neither of them is willing to break the spell of the moment. It isn’t for a long, _long_ time that either of them can even step away, let alone speak.

‘I missed you’ they both say at the same time, and Arya cannot help but laugh. _Truly_ laugh.

‘Even in death, you are still so vibrant’ his hand comes to cup her cheek and though it’s a shame that his eyes are blue now, the love within them is still the same ‘little sister’

Had she known how good it would be, Arya would have never tried to escape death. _So restful and tranquil._

It feels like home.

It is not Winterfell, but it feels like home.

‘I love you, Jon’ is all she needs to say.

‘I love you too, Arya’ He presses a kiss to her brow.

‘No’ she grabs him by the shoulders and stares into his eyes, willing him to understand her meaning ‘I _love_ you, Jon’

‘I know’ The Night King leans down to capture her lips, kissing her slowly, sensually, as if he’s savoring his favorite dish ‘So do I’ he kisses her again, this time he does it so sweetly that for a moment Arya’s knees almost forget to function correctly before she remembers that she should probably use those ‘why do you think I made you my bride of all things?’

Oh sweet Gods in the sept and in the world all around them. Arya had never thought in a thousand years that she would actually be _glad_ to be married to someone, when she was a little girl she had assumed that it would be some lord after her father’s influence who would try his best to stifle her spirit. And then after the war started she had counted herself lucky to even live another day. Even when she allowed herself to think about it, Arya never imagined that there was a man out there who could easily accept someone like her, let alone love her. Not with her plain face, not with her difficult dreams.

‘What are you waiting for then? Arya lazily flutters her eyelashes at Jon, the same man who shattered any doubt in her mind about being unlovable or lacking. At least not in his eyes. _Never in his eyes_. Basking in his wonder-filled gawk, she pushes her husband to the ground and follows after him, confident that he would never turn her away.

Later on when she snuggles into his side, Arya finds herself still grinning like an idiot.

* * *

It isn’t until they tear down the wall that Arya gets to see the undead dragon up close. She knows that it doesn’t like being approached by anyone but the king so she always kept her distance, despite how much her fingers itches to to touch it. _Just a graze will do._

‘I was wondering how long you would hold out before asking’ Her husband smirks, but mercifully the blood cannot flow to her cheeks ‘ we can go, but only if you promise to stay close to me’

‘I promise!’ Arya latches onto his arm, nodding so vigorously that her neck nearly cracks ‘let’s go!’

‘Here we go’ Like the infuriating older sibling that he is, Jon decides to take the opportunity to stroll casually, so slowly and languidly that they might as well be walking on eggshells. She meets his eyes in a fearsome glare, but all it does is make him chuckle ‘what? I’m taking you as you asked!’

‘Ughhh!’ she pushes, half drags him along the way. Only for him to refuse to budge like a stubborn mule ‘move!’

‘Now now, little sister. Patience is a virtue’ the _stupid_ teasing smile doesn’t leave his lips, even when he apologizes and puts an arm around her. It isn’t until they’re half way there that Arya decides to forgive him anyway.

‘Jon.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Why is it that only you can come near the dragon?’ A darkness seems to descend on him at the question ‘is it because you turned it? It can’t be, can it?’ She feels him stiffen against her, but decides to push just a little bit more ‘none of the other wights care who goes near them.’

‘You are the Night Queen, no wight would ever harm you’ he avoids meeting her gaze ‘my magic flows into you through our bond, you could probably control them just as well if you wanted it.’

‘That’s great to know and all, but you haven’t answered my question’ Arya stops their trek and finds his eyes with her own and sees the dread swimming within them.

She holds his hands, hoping to somehow chase away the fear ‘No more secrets, I want to know all of you’

There is a pregnant pause before he speaks.

‘Arya, I’m not...’ he gulps and squeezes her hands ‘I’m not the only Jon Snow in Westeros’

‘I don’t mean that there are people with the same name out there, that’s a given’ sensing her confusion, the Night King continues ‘I mean that I’m not the only _Jon Snow_ on this land’

‘How so?’

‘You believe me just like that?’ His brows shoot up.

‘I’ve seen enough to believe anything’ Arya shrugs ‘but you’ll have to explain it to me’

‘A very long time ago I found out who my mother is’ he nods, still concerned but at least he isn’t as tight as a bowstring ‘Eddard Stark is not my father.’

‘Of course he is!’ her voice raises on its own accord in his defense, a reflex she still has from her childhood.

‘Bless your noble heart’ his smile is lovely and sad ‘my father is Rhaegar Targaryen and my mother is your aunt Lyanna. I am your cousin, little heart. Not your brother.’

‘Oh’ for a few seconds Arya forgets to blink as her brain works out the information. Relief floods through her, along with a twinge of sorrow ‘it doesn’t matter, you know that right?’

They are both dead anyways.

‘It took me a long time to realize that, but I’ve accepted it’ And yet, the melancholy in his features doesn’t go away.

‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’

He then goes on to explain how he died and came back. How he took back Winterfell in her name.

Her mind is whirling by the time she asks ‘you were crowned the king in the North? When? How?’

‘After I took back Winterfell, the lords agreed that I would be king’ Jon huffs out a breath ‘that was before Bran came home of course’

Arya does a double take at his words, Bran’s alive! He’s alive!

‘We didn’t see eye to eye on several things, and soon we ended up fighting each other instead of the threat coming for us all’ _The walkers were marching on them before Jon became the Night King?_

‘I should have known better than to think that even an army could stand against a mage as powerful as Brandon’ his laughter was bitter ‘the day I stood against him was the day I doomed myself.’

‘You’re not making any sense…Bran…’

‘He did this to me Arya!’ Jon grabs her arms in a vicious grip ‘he sent me across through so many circles and hoops, at the time I did not understand a thing. The only thing I knew was that I looked a monster in a land close to my home’

‘It’s always from the beginning’ His blue eyes are wild, looking more through her than at her ‘ it’s always…’

‘Jon?’ His grip on her arms tighten so much that a wince escapes her, the king instantly mumbles an apology as he lets her go.

‘I’m not your Jon, little sister’ he looks like he’s tearing his heart out of his chest, which in turns makes her feel as if her _own_ heart is being ripped to shreds ‘he’s preparing for me in Winterfell with his wives, the southern and northern queens’

Had she been still alive, Arya’s sure that she would have thrown up at the thought. _It doesn’t matter now._ There are other things that are much more urgent at the moment.

‘Look at me’ The Night Queen cups her king’s cheeks, hoping that he can _see_ her sincerity ‘I don’t care where you came from.I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care if there millions of you running around. You are still Jon Snow, and that’s all I need to know.’

‘Even if I’m not the same man who used to muss your hair and hide you from Septa Mordane?’

‘You _are_ that man’ it’s true that she cannot quite unravel everything that was revealed to her, but Arya thinks that she can at least understand that much ‘so what if you did it in another time?’

‘You are much too kind to me’ he pulls her into a hug, and Arya lets him lean as much of his weight as he can on her ‘You always were you know’

Silly king, there never existed an easier soul to love.

They stay like that for what seems to be an eternity before Jon laces their fingers together, leading her once more to the dragon.

It’s one of most magnificent things that she’s every laid eyes upon, Arya had heard stories and dreamt of seeing a dragon her whole life. But looking upon one makes every thought she ever had about them disappear, just the _sheer_ size of the beast surpasses all of her expectations. The Queen of the dead stifles a giggle as she lets her husband put her hand on one of the dragon’s scales, feeling with her fingers skin harder than steel.

She wonders what it would feel like had the dragon been alive. _Probably hotter than wildfire._

Such a breathtaking creature. Dead.

‘Why are you marching south Jon?’ The question dribbles out of her lips, her curiosity finally getting the best of her ‘why are you bringing winter to the living?’

‘The same reason you are’ The Night King strokes the dragon next to her ‘don’t you wish for all of us to be reunited without having to be apart ever again?’

_Valar Morghulis._

Death is comforting. Death is quiet. In that she cannot argue.

And yet, even when he takes her flying on a dragon’s back she cannot escape the feeling of uneasiness.

There’s something about the way he said it that doesn’t quite convince her, perhaps because she knows him all too well, or mayhaps it’s because of her training with the faceless men.But her ears hear too much spite for his reasons to be about love.

 _I’ve become much too paranoid._ After all Jon would never tell a lie to her face.

She closes her eyes, and feels the wind tossing her hair around.

* * *

Daenerys Targaryen, the southern queen, descends upon them just before they reach Winterfell.

She comes for them riding on an even bigger dragon than the one they have, and the Night King flies to meet her in the air.

Below, Arya fights alongside the walkers against the dragon queen’s soldiers. More than thankful for the training Jon’s been giving her. She tries to focus on the arrows whizzing around her and the feel of Needle in her hand, but the battlefield is hard to ignore.

When the blue fire hits the enemy lines, Arya hears the horses screeching first. _They sound like terrified children._ Some of them die instantly while the other unfortunate ones keep shrieking and crying, not quite understanding why they’re on fire as they slip on the snow and mud and blood below them, crushing what remains of their riders.  

The wights fall like flies, as clean and silent as death. The other side doesn’t go down quite so gently, instead they’re cleaved down like a butcher’s cattle. The stench of blood, sweat, shit and fear reaches Arya’s nose and makes her want to retch even in her undead skin. They remind her of a time long _, long_ ago.

_Gods, What are we doing these people?_

New wights begin to rise from the fallen, and before she knows it the tides of battle are already turned. For those who remain hesitate to strike the fallen with true resolve. The human fighters put on their bravest faces, and Arya can practically hear them trying to remind themselves to be as calm as still water.

 _They fight death with everything they have_. She used to be the same, before realizing that there was nothing to escape.

The human queen is dealt a devastating blow, she falls down with her black dragon like a wounded raven only to be caught by the Night King. And Arya thinks to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

But the fight is not over.

Not a single soldier of Daenerys’ troupes lays down his weapons, instead they fight to the last man. Despite their sheer horror, their despair and the tears of misery pouring out of them, none of them give in until there’s nothing left but a stack of fresh new corpses. _This is no war_ . Even in its darkest moments a proper meeting on the battlefield had _some_ fairness in it, it required a modicum of strength and skill, cunning and strategy, fortitude and resilience, But none of these things mattered a whit here. _This is a massacre._

The Targaryen queen is brought to her knees before the king, and slowly Arya inches closer to the display through the walkers surrounding them.

‘Do as you will, demon’ Arya hears a womanly voice echoing around them, regal and powerful even when captured ‘my husband will tear you and your ilk to pieces the next time you cross him’

It’s at this moment that she finally reaches the scene and takes an eyeful of the southern queen. Even out of combat, the woman before her can’t be described as anything less than perfect, her alabaster hair glides over her creamy skin like a river and her amaranthine eyes glisten like jewels. _She’s even more gorgeous than Sansa._ Her lovely features are schooled into a stately mask, even when it’s clear that she’s dreading what happens next.

The second her good sister’s eyes meet her own, all the fire seems to drain out of Daenerys.

‘It cannot be, but it must. You look just like him ’ there is a rising panic in her voice, tinged with hopelessness ‘you’re the little sister! But you’re...’

She shakes her head. Whether it’s in shock or desperation, Arya cannot tell.

‘No…’ The Night King smirks as the dragon queen seems to fold in on herself, shoulders starting to shake. Arya can barely hear her voice, choked and broken as it is ‘all is lost’

Between the grieving queen and the confused one, neither of them has the time to react when the King quickly sinks his blade into his enemy’s heart.

 _No!_ Arya barely voices the thought before watching the silver queen’s limp body hit the snow like a rag, her corpse rises to join the other wights. Something in her doesn’t understand. _Cannot_ understand the outcome of the fight.

Death is a comfort. Then why is Daenerys and her people fighting for their side now?

Around her the walkers file away, each returning to their duties. But Arya stays nailed in her place, staring at the crimson spot where the enemy was executed. She’s only woken from her daze by a steady hand shaking her shoulder.

‘Little sister?’

‘She was already defeated and captured’ her eyes snap to his face, her stupor suddenly turning to fury ‘why would you do just kill her? You could have turned her!’

‘And have her try to usurp me for power? The Night King crosses his arms in front of his chest before realization seems to dawn on him, along with the lament of someone who remembered they Haven’t polished their favorite sword ‘Aye, I forgot she can’t without the blood of the first men.’

Arya wonders when did her kind, honorable brother turn into someone who slays defenseless women. It makes her feel her a pang in her throat ‘I never thought of you as someone who would do that, Jon’

A beat passes before she gets her reply. In which Jon seems to truly understand what she’s seeing.

‘Thank you’ Her husband’s voice softens, his kingly facade melting away at her words.

‘That’s all you have to say?’ had she been still breathing, Arya’s sure that she would be crying ‘do you have no remorse at all?’

‘Why would I feel remorse for giving _my enemy_ the gift of death?’ he stares at her, genuinely bewildered ‘this is _war_ Arya, people die in it all the time. _Valar Morghulis_ , remember?’

‘They die on the battlefield, aye’

‘And off of it.’

‘Only cowards like Freys and Lannisters do that!’

‘ _You_ gladly would. You did, in another time’ he steps closer, towering over her ‘you fed Walder Frey his own sons in a meat pie, you poisoned his entire house in the comfort of their own keep.’

‘Gods... ‘ she wants to call him a liar, but the signs on his face tell her otherwise so instead her hand rushes to cover her gaping mouth. The Night Queen tries to imagine herself doing that as her king tenderly pulls her cold body into a cold hug. _What kind of fiend was I becoming?_

Arya tries to calm herself against his armored chest, she pictures what’s left of her family back together again and hopes that at least the results are worth it.

* * *

Dread.

That’s the only emotion that Arya can bring herself to feel the closer they get to Winterfell, after the last skirmish she had thought that the feeling would fade away eventually. But everyday The queen senses her apprehension growing despite her best efforts to restrain it.

Jon is finally with her again. They’re in a position where no one can ever hurt them again. She is heading to Winterfell again. Seven hells, in a few hours she will be forever reunited with the rest of her family.

So why does she feel like a thousand needles are poking into her skin?

‘Are you well?’ the lull of his voice cuts right through her train of thoughts, no doubt noticing her stupid squeamishness. He was always too smart for his own good.

‘I can’t believe how close we are’ for his sake, Arya gives him her most dazzling smile ‘it almost feels like a dream.’

The Night Queen looks up into the eternally dark sky, bountiful with winter clouds so thick and extensive that not a single ray of the sun can shine through.

The Night Queen looks down from the dragon to watch the countless hordes of wights making the trek below them. _Soon the northerners will join them._

The thought shouldn’t disturb her as much as it does, after all the time she had been around them, and yet since Daenerys’ execution the mere sight of them is enough to make her want to recoil back. She had been angry at the dragon queen’s fate back then, wanting to roar at the injustice of it all.

Death is a blessing. But to end up like that…

No one deserved that, queen or pauper.

Before them, Winterfell looms like a beast. Winter town is suspiciously empty and a wave of gratefulness washes over her at the realization.

‘Go to the crypts, little sister’ Jon quickly pecks her cheeks ‘I’ll take care of the courtyard’

Arya nods and obeys, even when her feet seem to move so slowly no matter how fast she actually pushes forward, as if she’s waddling through the river with the water up to her waist.

After a lifetime where the world turns into a blur, the dead queen and her walkers finally reach the crypts.

‘I’ll go in alone first’ She isn’t quite sure why the thought of them setting foot in there does not sit well with her ‘Follow only on my command’

She steps into the twisting hallways and corridors alone, walking around the faithfully familiar paths and trying to ignore the heat emanating from the walls. It’s when she’s almost at the center, where the hushed voices of terrified people echo outside, that it happens.

The wintry queen steps into a puddle of water that someone probably spilled while barricading, not frozen ice like everything that surrounded her since her reawakening. But just plain water.

When she takes a look down, Arya spots her reflection for the first time in this new lifetime.

She expects to be greeted with ashen blue eyes and icy flesh, with frosted veins running along her face. A true Night Queen for the Night King. Instead she finds something much more unsettling: She doesn’t look alive. Even so her white skin was only a bit paler, clear of veins and of tiny little nubs on her head.

Her eyes were the same dusky grey as her uncle Benjen’s eyes, as Jon’s own used to be.

As father’s.

The grey of House Stark of Winterfell. Blood of the first men and protectors of the North.

Arya inhales, trying to somehow swallow the spike of emotion. She still looked like herself! Never had the princess of the north thought she’d be so happy to see her own dull eyes instead of sparkling cobalt ones.

Her breath comes out shakily as she stumbles towards the main chamber of the crypts, when she finally makes it. The stone statues of her forefathers look down upon her, their grey faces judging her. _Kinslayer_. They seem to chant as the air around her grows so hot that she might as well be roasting in an oven.

 _I bring absolution from this miserable world!_ Arya internally shouts back at them, but they don’t seem to be convinced.

Finally she makes it to father’s statue, and even though countless people are nestling underneath it. She can only look at the old man’s hard face.

 _Who are you?_ It commands her to answer.

Ned Stark’s little girl observes the trembling people before her, women, cripples, children and elderly. Too untrained and feeble to hold a weapon.

Cannon fodder in her husband’s army, huddling under father for safety.

Who _is_ she? She is the rightfully dreaded Night Queen, she is the miserable girl who murdered countless people before, the undead woman who already drove thousands to their death and subjugation, she is a subject loyal to her king, and a lass madly in love with her husband, she is…

She is…

‘I am Arya Stark of Winterfell’ she declares into the room, her gravelled voice reverberates off the walls as her chest squeezes so hard that she feels it ripping into a million little ribbons.

‘Arya?’ A feminine voice squeaks through the crowd as a stunning young lady slips out of it. Even in the dimness of the crypts, Sansa’s hair shine and frames her face like molten copper, complimenting the bronze crown on her head ‘is it really you?’

‘There’s no time to explain everything so listen to me if you want everyone to survive’ Arya gently lays a hand on her sister’s shoulder as she resists the urge to hug her, mindful of the confusion and terror etched onto her face ‘under no circumstances are you to leave the crypts, not until Northern soldiers come for you themselves. Do you understand me?’

‘We must listen to her’ Bran’s flat voice reaches Sansa from the back of the room, cutting through her apprehension. And something inside Arya loosens at the resolute nod she gets from the northern queen.

Her legs move on their own volition as she hugs her little brother. Bran doesn’t move for a moment, but just before she thinks that he will pull away she feels his arms around her.

‘I knew you would not abide by this, sister’ he whispers into her ear ‘not even for Jon’

‘How did you..?’ She pulls away in her surprise, staring into his empty cerulean eyes.

‘It doesn’t matter’ he squeezes her hand, the heat of them searing through her own cold ones ‘go now, before it’s too late’

Although her path is suddenly much clearer and her steps are strengthened with purpose, the feeling of dread still stays with her throughout her march back. It accompanies her when she commands the walkers to follow her, and when she follows the trail of the massacre into the godswood. But unlike before the battle, Arya finds a reason to viciously smother it away.

This world is punishing and nightmarishly evil, it grinds people to dust and sucks out all of their joy, and yes perhaps it would be better to wipe it all away and make existence simple and peaceful. But even so and despite her best efforts, Arya’s stubborn heart refuses to lose faith in it.

She refuses to lose faith in herself.

The Night Queen arrives to the godswood, and the sight that greets her is worthy of a tapestry or an ancient manuscript. The stage is set on a field of bare white spattered with carmine, before her the two northern kings fight with one obviously overtaking the other. For even though the living Jon Snow is fighting with incredible prowess, his movements are slow and sluggish, obviously marred by exhaustion and injury. He fights a hopeless battle against the Night King and an ever growing gaggle of wights and walkers, the only thing keeping them remotely at bay is his Valyrian steel blade. Her stomach drops to her knees the moment his coal eyes meet her own, and she can swear that her heart starts beating for just a second.

One flash of distraction was all her husband needed to strike _just right_ , making Arya feels like she’s about to die a second death when the greatsword explodes into a hundred tiny shrapnel.

Without wasting a breath, the Night King knocks Jon to the ground and raises his sword to strike his final blow, and in her panic she feels time slowing down until it trickles like molasses. _Not again. Not today._ Arya moves with the speed of lightning, leaving no time for looking back and regretting what she’s about to do.

She draws her frozen Needle and steps between the two kings, plunging the end across the part where the frosted armor was damaged and sticking it right into his heart.

‘I’m sorry’ Arya sobs as the distress and sorrow she’s been keeping at bay overtakes her at the confused look in her husband’s eyes ‘I love you’

She can read the thoughts going through his mind in the last few seconds of his existence. _I love you and you betrayed me._ He shakes his head in bewilderment. _I trusted you and you killed me._ Arya doesn’t look away from his gaze even when guilt and grief scrape against her like jagged knives, if she’s heartless enough to carry through with this deed then she must look him in the eye and face the ugliness of her decisions.

The world shatters as her beloved’s body slowly hits the ground.

Needle bursts into blazing flames, sizzling and scorching as their heat hisses through her veins like acid. The Night Queen’s skin boils from the inside out, the shocks of hot and cold roiling through her body like thunder.

Suddenly she is no longer _just_ Arya. She is a living breathing direwolf tearing into the undead next to her red eyed brother. She is the only magic that controls every wight around them, turning them against their old masters. She is one with the smoking sword in her hand, swearing destruction upon her enemies.

All she feels is agony.

But her purpose is not yet done.

‘Valar Morghulis’ is her battle cry, she shrieks the words in her anguish as she turns against the Walkers surrounding them. They hound and mob her, but Jon’s training has more than prepared her for it.

Arya sews and sews until none of them is left.

Only then does she _finally_ rest. Her Needle, once locked so tight in her grip, glides away as if it wasn’t seared into her hand a moment ago.

‘Oh’ she feels the pain slipping away, she feels everything slipping away.

‘Arya!’ Before she can hit the ground, warm arms catch her.

‘Jon’ she smiles at the love of her girlhood, behind him the sky is blue and the sun is shining, surrounding his head like a halo ‘I’m so grateful!’

Indeed she was. To die with her soul still intact and back in Jon’s arms was not so bad. There are much worse fates than this, she thinks.

Next to them she can spot father’s proud face and mother’s sweet smile. With them stands Robb and Rickon, their expressions shining with mirth, but Arya’s eyes were only on Jon’s bewildered face.

‘Don’t die Arya, _please’_ his tears hit her face as his whole body shakes ‘I can’t lose you...there is no life for me without you…’

Spring blooms around them, bringing an epiphany of colors into view. The smell of flowers hits her nose, not winter roses, but fresh spring blossoms. And _oh_ how sweet their scent is.

Had someone told her two years ago that she would be so happy, she would have spat in their face for the audacity. It was like an everlasting dream, and Arya knew she would never wake up.

‘Don’t be so sad brother. Death is peaceful and comfortable’ she cups his cheek with what strength she has left, and immediately his steady hand envelopes hers ‘but life is beautiful too, it’s worth living Jon’

Jon’s whimpers only grow as he presses a kiss to her forehead.

‘Promise me you’ll live. _Truly_ live’ Arya traces the worry lines away from his brow ‘promise me, Jon.’

His body trembles anew, and her brother cradles her to his chest so tightly as if he’ll somehow weld her to his heart if he holds her close enough.

‘I promise’ he whispers the words as if he just admitted to high treason. Silly man, he’ll thank her for this the next time they meet.

Arya beams at him, and to her luck she manages to draw one last watery chuckle from him. She leans her head back, letting the sound of it wash over her.

The cold and warmth leave her body at once. And In the arms of the king of the living, the Night Queen surrenders her life.

Arya Stark dies.

* * *

  **Epilogue**

‘Arya are you dead? Come on and get up, you can’t hide forever you know.’

‘Yes I can’ She groans and burrows under the cover ‘it’s like three in the morning!’

‘It’s six’ Sansa yanks the covers down mercilessly ‘and keep your voice down, the boys are still sleeping.’

‘Remind me again why we have to literally wake up before the sun?’

‘Do the words _royal wedding_ ring a bell?’ Her sister’s smile turns into a smirk ‘or are the lovebirds actually getting cold feet?’

‘Do I really have to remind you two to behave like ladies today of all days?’ Before their bickering can even start their mother glides into the room, her steps graceful and soundless ‘Arya in exactly ten hours you will be a princess! Would you please _try_ to behave like one?’

It’s no secret that her mom didn’t like the groom very much, especially with the scandal that his birth brought on the family when a young lady Lyanna Stark got pregnant with the then prince Rhaegar’s child. The press of course ate it up when her aunt refused to marry the baby daddy and preferred instead to raise her son as a single mother.

A few years later Rhaegar became king, he legitimized her cousin but Jon still kept his mother’s name despite the court’s coaxing. Arya had been so proud of him for it, even if it was less convenient for the two families.

‘Yes dear mama’ she lets them pull her up as she heaves a sigh, steeling herself against the day.

For what seems like an eternity, Arya lets the onslaught hairdressers, makeup artists and the designer’s team truss her up like a turkey. She doesn’t dare to open her mouth because let’s face it, they already have _a lot_ of work to do and making their job harder by acting like a brat is not doing anyone any favors.

It all seems worth it when her dad sees her for the first time at the grand sept’s door, he gives her a teary smile that makes her hug him as close as she can, etiquette be damned.

‘You really look like a bride’ he gently kisses her the top of her head ‘no running away from the wedding?’

Arya did just that last night with Jon, they had quickly eloped and married under the heart tree in secret. It had lifted a big weight off of both of their shoulders, not that she would ever tell her dad.

‘Come on daddy’ she kisses him back on the cheek ‘people are gonna start asking questions’

The moment they step into the sept, her anxiety comes back to her. The ostentatious decorations, the noble guests, the press and the damn High Septon are all suddenly looking at her. The music swells as her dad starts leading her along the path to her future life. A life of formality and restrictions and politics and…

All her thoughts evaporate when she spots Jon waiting down the alter, Ghost and Nymeria's tongues loll out as they sit guard next to where both of them are supposed to stand. And something about the way he smiles and cries at the sight of her makes her worries dissipate like a puff of smoke in the wind.

Tears of joy sting her eyes, and Arya is practically _dragging_ her dad down the aisle, a face splitting grin plastered on as her heart beats like a jackhammer with elation.

She reaches Jon and clasps his hand tight in hers, not hesitating for a second to declare her first and last love as one with her in front of all of the seven kingdoms. He bends down to capture her lips in a heated kiss that gives her goosebumps from head to toe. As soon as they break away, Jon kisses the tip of her nose then her eyelids followed by her cheeks, whispering _I love you_ s between each feather light press of his lips.

Arya giggles and snorts. She _cannot help it._ Not when her impossibly adoring husband is peppering her with kisses in front of millions of people beyond propriety, and _that’s_ her biggest problem. Sure she’ll have to tell him about the baby tonight but even then, she’s pretty sure that somehow she’ll manage that difficult task.

 _Gods._ Life is beautiful!

 _**~End~** _ 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this especially in light of the new season =D
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes as English isn't my native language. But please feel free to point them and I'll get on it!


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